Water Instead
by raisingirl02
Summary: Rogue contemplates her curse, the meaning of history's most beautiful music, fire, water, and the newest X-Man, Gambit.


_Title:_ "Water Instead" (1/1)   
_Author:_ Melissa Lee   
_Rating:_ PG   
_Date:_ 9-5-00   
_Feedback:_ Bring it on! Royal_Starship@yahoo.com

_Disclaimer:_ Rogue and all affiliated characters belong to Marvel Enterprises,   
et all. Don't sue because I'll flee the country and you'll never find me!   
*maniacle laughter*   
_Disclaimers Strike Back:_ I disclaim my lack of canon-ness in the X-Men uni-   
verse. I have an extraordinarly vague idea of how Gambit came to join   
the X-Men. Oops.

_Author's Notes:_ The reason this fic took so long to surface was primarily be-   
cause of an inability to locate a willing beta-reader that really *reads*.   
If you are one, you've got my digits above. ;-) French translations are   
at the end of the story.   
_Dedications & Thanks:_ Inspiration is an author's greatest gift. Though she'll   
probably never know, this story is forever accredited to Tori Amos, for   
giving me the pleasure of listening to "Cooling." The silver goes to the   
other musicians mentioned -- they are/were geniuses also.

_Summary:_ (Flickfic) Rogue contemplates her curse, the meaning of history's   
most beautiful music, fire, water, and the newest X-Men, Gambit.   


¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤

"But Fire thought she'd really rather be Water instead/   
This is cooling/Faster than I can/This is cooling."

--"Cooling," Tori Amos (Live)

¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤   


A single tear slithered unceremoniously down Rogue's face, unwiped, unchecked,   
and uncaring. She sat as a flame glowing forth from a campfire, paralyzed and cap-   
tivated by the sounds echoing through her room. Lone grand piano notes floated out   
of a nearby compact disc player, their effect all to similar to that of the glittering   
crystal clear orbs emanating from a bubble machine. The seemingly spontaneous   
notes soon resolved themselves into the tune Rogue had become so intimately familiar   
with. The string section picked up a pleasant, yet tragic tempo as the ungracious   
hands continued the theme from _Love Story_ on the piano.   
The instrumental tale of woe always had this effect on her, yet still she submitted   
herself to the nightly anguish of Henry Mancini, Beethoven, Trevor Jones, and other   
various composers. The dull ache began deep within her chest as she once again real-   
ized that she would forever observe love from afar, that the feelings and emotions   
expressed in this amazing music would never apply to her. The pain spread -- growing   
like a wildfire -- and she felt the tears prickling at the back of her eyes.   
Rogue lay atop her bed, her gloved hands and arms cradling her face, smoky   
green eyes turned toward the balcony. The October breeze winding through her room   
had settled a breathtaking coldness around her, yet the pale peach moonlight   
tumbling into her room was worth the chill. Shivering imperceptibly, Rogue switched   
positions, leaning her head on one hand only, ignoring the rough feel of the arm length   
glove on the sensitive skin of her cheek.   
Her cheek stained with tears.   
She sniffed loudly as she focused her attention on the beautiful music, feeling   
her sadness tightly embrace her eggshell heart. Her favorite part of the instrumental   
was coming up, where the single hand intoning the piano theme was joined by another.   
A pair of twin musical strands singing together of simple, elegant tragedy. Next, the   
two tunes intertwined once more and separated from each other, like a pair of divided   
lovers. Finally, the theme reached a dramatic crescendo, the orchestra rising up like   
a bonfire, and the cue ended.   
Sighing deeply, Rogue heard a small group of X-Men returning from an evening   
out. Their laughter and wine-induced delight rippled through the empty halls of Pro-   
fessor Xavier's mansion, and Rogue could feel her face burning at the thought of why   
she had not joined them for dinner.   
That morning, someone new had joined the group. A Southern boy about her   
age by the name of Remy LeBeau, though he preferred to be called Gambit.   
Rogue and Logan were in the kitchen that morning, conversing quietly over   
their respective breakfasts of hot chocolate and beer. Ororo had walked in then,   
an unkept yet decidedly attractive visitor in her wake. Storm glanced at Rogue   
and Logan at the table, then turned back to the boy -- who had not yet noticed   
the room's other occupants -- and pointed out where he could find food, drinks,   
and other items. After completing the quick overview, Ororo looked the boy in the   
eye and murmured, "Don't even think of taking anything from here either. We'll   
know." Rogue threw a curious look to Logan, who narrowed his eyes in silent re-   
sponse. Was the latest X-Men a thief?   
For the first time, Ororo turned to Logan and Rogue and mentioned something   
about other occupants of the mansion. The two watched the newcomer with   
profound interest. Wolverine did not seem to make a good first impression judging   
by the grunt he introduced himself with. Then, by further urging from his female   
companions, he muttered, "How ya doin', Gumbo," and turned back to his beverage.   
But when the boy turned to Rogue, she thought she could see his deep-set eyes   
blaze red in interest. He gave her an appraising look, and Rogue felt her cheeks   
flush at the attention. She wondered at his own first impression of her, still   
dressed in her pajamas with a loose ponytail and silvery white locks of hair framing   
her face.   
He didn't seem to care.   
The boy held a hand out to Rogue, glancing at the slender, white, and un-   
gloved hand resting on her knee. However, she only gave him a shake of her head   
and told him, "I'm better with verbal introductions." She shrugged slightly.   
He seemed to wonder at her refusal to shake hands with him, but did not   
hesitate in continuing. "De name is Gambit," he said in a husky French-Cajun   
accent, his lips hinting at a cocky smirk. "But you, chere, may call me Remy.   
Comment t'appelles tu?"   
"Rogue," she gave her name shortly, remaining expressionless. "How has your   
trip here been?" she added in an attempt at friendliness.   
"Très bien," he replied in perfect, admirable French, "now dat I've met you."   
He gazed down at her, chestnut strands falling into his fathomless eyes.   
Rogue allowed herself a flattered smile and bit her lip, then quietly excused   
herself from the room. She felt Remy's eyes on her the whole time. Once she   
cleared the doorway, she flattened herself against the wall outside, listening   
carefully. She heard Remy say, thinking she was gone, "I must've come to da right   
place, no? Dat girl is on fire!"   
Smiling to herself, Rogue furiously wondered what Logan's reaction to that   
would be, considering his protective position over her.   
"That's right, Gumbo," he retorted, an angry edge in his voice. "'Cept touchin'   
fire is less painful than touchin' Rogue. So you'd better watch those thievin' hands   
of yer's." With that, he pushed his chair back and exited the room, oblivious to   
Rogue hiding in the shadows.   
Presently, Rogue switched her CD player to a Trevor Jones piece from the film   
_The Last of the Mohicans_. The diligent fiddle worked its magic as she mulled over   
those earlier events. She knew Logan had realized that Rogue had been unable   
to explain to the handsome newcomer of the dangers in physical contact with her.   
In reality, he had helped her, more or less, in telling Remy, but had unintentionally   
cheapened his compliment. She hadn't even been able to go out for dinner that   
night when Jean had come down to the pool and invited Rogue, adding that "the   
new boy" would be coming also.   
Rogue rubbed her eyes, trying to extinguish the burning tears. Burning, she   
thought bitterly, always burning. Like a fire. Why did it have to be fire that she   
was compared to? Fire hurt. Fire scarred. Fire was painful. Though beautiful, no-   
body could truly love fire.   
Flipping onto her back and relaxing into the comfortable bed, Rogue squeezed   
her eyes shut and listened to the epic theme of _The Last of the Mohicans_ heighten   
in drama to the background of the fiddle's promising repetition. All she could think   
of was what Remy and Logan had said. "Fire!" Gambit had said. "Fire is less painful..."   
Logan had intoned. They meant well, Rogue knew, but the flames searing at her   
soul remained. She was cursed to feel this burning for the rest of her life. All she   
wanted was for the fire to cool.   
Suddenly, Rogue imagined water. The most peaceful element of all, Rogue's   
mind's eye concocted images of gurgling streams, lapping waves, roaring rapids,   
rain puddles, and even dripping tap water. Water was looked upon as cleansing   
and pure. Clear, cold, and soft to touch. Yet she was fire. With that, she realized   
that, if anything, she would really rather be water instead. Anybody could touch   
water and remain safe. Humanity loved water. Oceans, lakes, and rivers were   
highly populated areas. Yet she was fire. Hard, scalding, unforgiving fire.   
Surprised to find water dripping down her face, Rogue swiped at the droplets   
atop her cheekbones and wondered how fire could produce water. Immediately   
passive, a thought hit the young girl: she would yet become like water. Soon,   
her pain would pay off, her tears would put out the fire, and Remy would be   
waiting for her. For her powers to come under control, for the fire to dwindle.   
She daydreamed of a secluded lake house where she could wake up early   
every morning with Remy and swim in the lake with him, unconcerned with the   
touching of their bare skin.   
A new song came onto the player, and the beautiful notes of a woman's voice   
reached Rogue's ears.   
This is cooling.   


¤-~-¤-~-¤   
_French For Fanfiction Fans_

1.) "Comment t'appelles tu?" literally translates to "How do you call yourself?" but   
is used in ordinary conversation as "What's your name?"

2.) "Très bien" literally translates to "Very well" or "Very good."


End file.
